


Eggshells

by druscilla



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 10:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10897326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druscilla/pseuds/druscilla
Summary: His entire life is walking on eggshells anyway.  Or smashing eggs.  Today is an eggshell day.





	Eggshells

There's too many rocks on the sidewalk for some reason. Pete can feel them through the soles of his shoes and he winces with every step, but that's okay. His entire life is walking on eggshells anyway. Or smashing eggs. Today is an eggshell day.

He sighs and shoves his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets. There's a lighter on the ground. A red Bic with the sticker faded and peeling. He picks it up and flicks it, staring transfixed. The flame is barely there, mostly dead. But he puts it in his pocket anyway. He can feel his phone vibrating in his back pocket and he ignores it. It can only be one person anyway.

\---

Patrick sighs and closes the phone. "He won't answer," he mumbles to Pete's mom. "Don't worry. I'll find him."

"You don't have to. I'm sure he's fine," the woman says. They both knows she's lying.

"I'll find him," Patrick repeats.

\---

Pete hops the fence to the elementary school pretty easily. It's dark, the street lights too far way to provide much glow at all. But he stumbles toward the playground anyway, his eyes uneventfully acclimating to it. He sits down on the merry go round and lies back, staring up at the sky. It's cloudy and there's no stars, no moon. The metal is cold even through his hoodie and he shivers slightly.

He hears footsteps in the still night and sits up, a little startled. A guy who looks younger than him jumps, clearly thinking he was alone as well. "S-Sorry," he says. "I didn't know anyone else was . . ." His voice trails off awkwardly, embarrassed. Pete likes it. He remembers caring about things, like what people thought of him.

"It's cool," he says.

"I was just gonna smoke a joint," the guy says, pulling it from his pocket. "Do you ..."

Pet shrugs. "Sure."

They sit at the top of the playground next to the slide, feet dangling, passing it back and forth. They don't talk, don't exchange names. Pete feels fuzzy and a little light-headed, but it's good. He puts his hand high on the boy's thigh and squeezes. He gasps as the joint is about to hit his lips, but doesn't pull away.

\---

Patrick's been to all of the usual places, called a couple of people. So now he's walking over that one bridge. Pete doesn't usually cross it, just sits on the edge with his feet hanging over the side. He swears to Patrick he's not thinking about jumping when he does it. Patrick asked once what else there could possibly be to think about. 

"Flying," Pete had said simply.

\---

Pete's got his hand down the boy's pants now, still passing the joint back and forth, the kid choking and coughing every so often. They still aren't talking except for the occasional breathy swear word.

He's feeling pretty damn good about himself, too, until the boy comes all over Pete's hand and his own jeans, biting his lip to keep from crying out and dropping the joint to the ground below. "I'm not gay," is the first thing he says.

Pete rolls his eyes and wipes his hand off on the guy's shirt. "Later," he says as he jumps down and starts walking into the darkness, ignoring the slight dizziness. He's ready to go home now. He's tired and a little angry and a lot ready to see--

He shakes his head. No. _No._ Not even to himself. No.

\---

Patrick hasn't made it very far past the bridge when he sees the shadowed figure in the distance. He knows it's Pete. He doesn't know how he does, but he _knows_ And he's right.

The boy doesn't even look surprised to see him, just relieved. "Did you drive?" he asks, reeking of pot.

Patrick nods.

"Good. I'm fucking tired." He pushes his face into Patrick's shoulder, taking a deep breath when he feels a hand rubbing up and down his back. "I don't want to talk about it," he says, voice muffled.

Patrick nods. "I know." Pete never does. Except at four am when he's drunk and he thinks Patrick is too. "Let's go."

Pete plays with his almost dead lighter as they walk back in silence. Patrick keeps the radio on low while they drive, but lets Pete pick the station. They go down to the basement when they get back and Pete's mom has already made up the sleeper sofa.

"She loves you," Pete mumbles. "She thinks I love you too."

"I love you," Patrick says quietly. No real inflection; he just says it.

Pete nods. "Yeah, I know." He kicks of his shoes and climbs under the sheets. Patrick does the same and they don't say anything else, their backs to each other in the darkness. But Pete pushes one of his feet against Patrick's calf and they both feel a little better.


End file.
